1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
32. |
33. |
34. |
35. |
36. |
37. |
38. |
39. |
40. |
41. |
42. |
43. |
44. |
45. |
46. |
47. |
48. |
49. |
50. |
51. |
52. |
53. |
54. |
55. |
56. |
57. |
58. |
59. |
60. |
61. |
62. |
63. | LXIII. YES, IN MY SOUL, WITH FOLDED WING. |
64. |
65. |
66. |
67. |
68. |
69. |
70. |
71. |
72. |
73. |
74. |
75. |
76. |
77. |
78. |
79. |
80. |
81. |
82. |
83. |
84. |
85. |
86. |
87. |
88. |
89. |
90. |
91. |
92. |
93. |
94. |
95. |
96. |
97. |
98. |
99. |
100. |
101. |
102. |
103. |
104. |
105. |
106. |
107. |
108. |
109. |
110. |
111. |
112. |
113. |
Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | ||
LXIII. YES, IN MY SOUL, WITH FOLDED WING.
Yes, in my soul, with folded wing,
A pure and happy hope is sleeping,
While Love low lullabies doth sing,
His vigil o'er it keeping.
A pure and happy hope is sleeping,
While Love low lullabies doth sing,
His vigil o'er it keeping.
A hope divinely beautiful,
With wings in rosy splendour gleaming;
It dreams of heaven—it dreams of thee—
It smiles in that sweet dreaming.
With wings in rosy splendour gleaming;
It dreams of heaven—it dreams of thee—
It smiles in that sweet dreaming.
I dare not name its name to thee,
No, not in softest, faintest sigh;
For oh! if once betray'd by me,
'Twould wake and weep and fly!
No, not in softest, faintest sigh;
For oh! if once betray'd by me,
'Twould wake and weep and fly!
417
No earthly care or grief shall wave
Its cold and blighting pinions o'er it;
For Love shall guard my spirit hope,
Till heaven dawn before it.
Its cold and blighting pinions o'er it;
For Love shall guard my spirit hope,
Till heaven dawn before it.
Then let it sleep; profane it not—
That slumber, soft and light and holy—
The dearest joy, the fairest thought,
That lights my lot so lowly.
That slumber, soft and light and holy—
The dearest joy, the fairest thought,
That lights my lot so lowly.
Ah! let it sleep, with folded wings,
Till when the angel Death shall free it,
At heaven's own glorious gate it sings;
Then shall thy spirit see it!
Till when the angel Death shall free it,
At heaven's own glorious gate it sings;
Then shall thy spirit see it!
Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | ||